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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126868">Five Times Spencer Doesn't Meet Sam, And One Time He Does</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock'>there_must_be_a_lock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(implied) - Freeform, 1991-2007, Autistic Spencer Reid, Canon Rewrite, Chance Meetings, Episode: s01e15 The Benders, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:06:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,631</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126868</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do I know you?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>338</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1991</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You don’t understand,” Spencer’s mom says, peering through the tiny gap between the motel curtains. “It’s too far away. Much too far away. They’ll see me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We could order delivery,” Spencer offers tentatively, but she’s shaking her head before he finishes the sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, sweetheart, why don’t you get something from the vending machine,” she says absent-mindedly. “I can’t, but… you go. I’ll keep watch. How does that sound?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer shrugs. His mom digs some money out of the bottom of her purse, more than he’ll need, and he tucks it obediently into his pocket. She reminds him to do the secret knock when he comes back, and then she hides in the bathroom while he slips out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer’s learned how to avoid attention, by now. He doesn’t really have to think about it any more; he puts a bland sort of smile on his face and walks quickly, looking straight ahead. His mom says he looks twitchy when he lets himself glance around at everything the way he wants to. There are so many tiny sounds and flickers of movement in a new place. Spencer tunes them out and carefully keeps his hands still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He studies the options carefully and counts out the crumpled one dollar bills in his pocket. It’s enough to get them each two of their favorite candy bar (Snickers for him, Crunch for Mom) and a soda to share. Mom probably won’t eat the second one, but Spencer can save it for morning. She said they could leave in the morning, but… who knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s collecting his soda when he hears voices coming around the corner. It makes him nervous until he realizes that they’re young, maybe his age. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad said he’ll be back soon, though,” a quiet voice mutters. “Promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we get peanut M&amp;Ms, too?” another boy asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer sneaks a glance at them out of the corner of his eye as he feeds bills into the slot. They’re both around his age. The older one has a solemn look on his face. He’s counting out a handful of change while the younger one stares at the vending machine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just one thing,” the older boy tells his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Dean -” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said one,” Dean snaps, and his brother’s eyes go big and sad. “I told you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Kay,” the younger one says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer puts the Crunch bars in his pocket and has a brief but intense argument with himself as he watches the Snickers fall. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oops,” he mutters casually, when the M&amp;Ms slowly move forward. He picks them up and turns to face the other boys with a careful frown on his face. “Do you want these?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean looks suspicious, but his brother is nodding excitedly, asking, “Really?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer shrugs. “I don’t like them,” he lies. “I got the wrong thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” the younger one says, earnest and happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s face softens as he watches his brother tear the package open. “Thanks,” he echoes, in a gruff, serious voice that makes him sound almost like a grown-up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer  hesitates. It's been a while since he got to talk to anyone his own age. He almost wants to stay, introduce himself, see if these boys have any books… he only had time to grab three before they left, and he finished the last one yesterday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. He has to get back to his mom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” he says politely. He gives them an awkward little wave and walks away, trying to resist the urge to look back. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1993</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next punch hits Spencer in the gut and he doubles over, wheezing, gasping for breath. Tommy shoves him and he goes down hard, managing to protect his glasses (barely) at the expense of his elbows, which take the worst of the fall. The impact rips at his skin and jolts up his arms, and the pain is blinding. Tears sting his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two more months. Two months, and then he’s out of here, Spencer reminds himself, holding onto the thought as his head spins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer curls into himself protectively, hands over his face, as the four of them gather around. The first kick connects solidly with his ribs, knocking the last of the air from his lungs. Spencer can’t hold back the little whimper that escapes his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey! Stop!” a childish voice is yelling fiercely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who the hell are you, shrimp?” one of the senior boys laughs, but then Spencer hears an impact and a curse, and there’s a scuffle somewhere behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to take his hands away from his face long enough to figure out what’s going on. He can’t let them break another pair of glasses. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave him alone, you — </span>
  <em>
    <span>oof</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Spencer hears, followed by a groan of pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was nice while it lasted, the idea of someone trying to help. It’s been a long time since anybody tried to help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kid’s still fighting back, though, to Spencer’s surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer peers cautiously through his fingers. There’s a boy, maybe his age, snarling curses and struggling as Brad holds him back. There’s blood on his chin, but he doesn’t seem to notice it; he just looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, thrashing and kicking, hissing like a feral animal backed into a corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fuck are you doing to my brother?” someone shouts, deep and furious.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off, new kid,” Chris snaps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stomping footsteps approach and then there’s a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The younger kid shouts gleefully as someone curses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer sneaks a glance just in time to see the new guy (Dan? Something like that?) deck Tommy with one vicious punch to the nose. There’s a sharp </span>
  <em>
    <span>crack</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the impact. Tommy shouts and staggers back, clutching at his face as blood starts to run down his chin. Dan’s maybe half the size of Chris, but Chris is hunched over, clutching his stomach and moaning, as he stumbles away. The others follow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ psycho,” Brad sneers over his shoulder, but he looks scared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dan doesn’t even watch them go; he’s already checking on his brother, examining the split in his lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer uncurls slightly, whining at the pain that lances through him. He sits, arms hugging his knees, and tries to take deep breaths. Everything hurts. Spencer’s a little dizzy, and his vision is blurry at the edges where tears cling to his lashes. Standing seems like a monumental task. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The hell were you thinking, pickin’ fights?” the new kid asks fiercely. “I told you to meet me out front!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They were hurting him,” the younger one growls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span> here and you’re making trouble. If Dad sees I let you get hurt — </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer blinks up at the younger one, shielding his eyes against the glare, and nods mutely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” Dan mutters. “Just a couple more days in this shithole.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kid extends a hand, but Spencer shakes his head. He doesn’t want anyone to touch him right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dan is already walking away, looking back impatiently, and the kid glances from Spencer to his brother and then back again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he finds his voice again and croaks out a weak “thank you,” they’re too far away to hear him. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading 🖤 </p><p>I would love love love to hear from you either here or on tumblr, I’m @there-must-be-a-lock.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1997</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Spencer has <em>so much work to do</em>. He’d planned to be in the library most of the day Saturday, but now he needs to get all of that done before he leaves Friday. His chest feels tight when he thinks about it, and he calculates the odds of finding time to sleep anytime in the next three days. They’re not good. </p><p>
  <span>He knuckles at his eyes and tries to breathe, taking the library steps two at a time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mom’s voice had sounded so thin and scared on the phone. Spencer can’t get it out of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just go lock the doors and make yourself some food, mom,” he’d begged. “Please. Promise me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d promised, but… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He imagines her packing in a rush, the way they used to, driving off alone to a seedy motel or a campsite, cowering away from the windows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mom is scared, and he <em>isn’t there</em>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hauls in a deep, desperate breath. He’s not going to think about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer stops on the second floor landing. He should keep going. Two more flights of stairs, one right turn, and he’ll be at the row of quiet study cubicles; his favorite one, at the very end, should be open at this time of day. He should sit there and work until the library closes. </span>
</p><p><span>Spencer hesitates</span>. He taps his knuckles rapidly on his messenger bag, paralyzed by indecision. </p><p>
  <span>Just a few minutes. A chapter or two. That’ll help him calm down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns left out of the stairwell and walks fast, head down. He doesn’t have to look at the numbers on the ends of the shelves any more to find 823.8, DOY. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns sharply and trips over something unexpected, staggering a few ungainly steps before regaining his balance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” says a quiet voice from the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer adjusts his glasses and looks down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a boy sitting cross-legged, right in front of the row of Sherlock Holmes books where Spencer had intended to sit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not a student,” Spencer says, frowning. He knows this because Spencer is the youngest person currently enrolled at CalTech, and this boy is definitely not older than him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kid snorts and gives him a dismissive look up and down. “Like you’re old enough to go here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer points defensively to the student ID clipped to his pocket, and the kid frowns. He drops the nonchalant facade, turning wide puppy-dog eyes up to Spencer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t rat me out?” he says. “My brother is with this girl, I’m supposed to wait for him. I just wanted to read for a while.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spencer hesitates, agitated even though he knows he shouldn’t be. There’s a person in his spot. He’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be in Spencer’s spot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just wanted to read for a while,” the kid repeats, and there’s a pleading note in his voice that Spencer can’t ignore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you reading?” he blurts out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.” He holds it up to show Spencer the cover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. That’s — I was — that’s what I was going to read,” Spencer says haltingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, you can — I’ll just go,” the boy stutters, but Spencer sees him glance down at the page one more time, like he can’t bring himself to close the book. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Spencer shakes his head and takes a step back, flustered. “No, just — I need to do work anyway. I should work. Never mind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns on his heel and walks away before the boy can argue. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 2006</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alternate ending to Supernatural S1E15, "The Benders."</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
<p></p><div class=""><p><strong>Th</strong>e team moves quickly and quietly toward the house, maneuvering through a minefield of ancient rusty nails and scrap metal. Spencer grimaces as he almost trips over an old wooden wagon wheel in the grass. He’s glad he’s up to date on his tetanus shots. </p></div><div class=""><p>Morgan signals from the side of the house, where he’s spotted a storm door. Hotch directs Elle and Spencer to go with Morgan, while Hotch, Gideon, and the police officers head for the porch. </p></div><div class=""><p>“FBI, open up!” Hotch shouts from the front, and then he grimly announces, “I see movement. Let’s go.” </p></div><div class=""><p>Morgan heaves the storm door open and leads the way down into the basement. Spencer follows, treading carefully. </p></div><div class=""><p>He’s not careful enough to avoid the cobwebs clinging to the low entrance. As he ducks, one of them sticks to his temple and his ear. Spencer shudders, skin crawling, and it takes all his training not to drop his firearm and claw it off. </p></div><div class=""><p>Spencer is determined to prove himself to the team, but he’s starting to wish he’d stayed at the station when Gideon gave him the option. </p></div></div><div class="">
  <p>The room is disgusting: humid and moldy, reeking of outhouse with undertones of stale sweat and mildew. Morgan and Elle clear the first half of the basement quickly, and then when they peer around the corner, Spencer hears low, urgent voices. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Clear,” Elle tells Spencer. He holsters his weapon and paws at the side of his face, and the cobweb is gone but the sticky, suffocating feeling of it won’t go away. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“ —need to get the lock open,” Morgan is muttering, as Spencer catches up and takes in the cage. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“My brother, he went looking for the key—” one of the captives starts, but he’s interrupted by a shout and a scuffle from upstairs. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Reid, stay put,” Morgan barks, and then the two of them are bounding up the stairs to join the rest of the team. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer is left alone in the near-dark with a sewage bucket and two strangers. Typical. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He squints at one of the locks and pulls out his picks. He knows he should talk to the victims, ask if they’re okay, introduce himself, whatever… but he can still feel cobweb on his skin, and the rancid damp closed-in air is making it hard to breathe evenly. He can’t manage social niceties right now. The puzzle of a complicated lock will be a welcome focus, though. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He frees the woman first, and she gives him a clipped “Thanks,” before charging upstairs. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Condensation drips from a slimy pipe over Spencer’s head. A fat drop of cold water hits the back of his neck, making him twitch. He fights the unpleasant prickle that goes down his spine, reminding himself that this is part of the deal; if he wants to make Gideon proud, if he wants to pull his weight with the team, this probably won’t be his last experience with subterranean nightmare rooms. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You okay?” the guy asks, quiet and concerned. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Should be asking you that,” Spencer mumbles in response, embarrassed. “You’re the one who’s locked in a murder basement.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That is <em>not</em> part of the normal script for “talking to people in cages 101,” but the guy laughs, bright and surprised, and Spencer wonders why he seems so blasé about this whole situation. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“All clear up here,” Morgan calls from the door, and then a stranger is clattering down the stairs.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Got it!” he announces, brandishing a ring of old keys. Spencer fiddles, and the lock gives with a quiet <em>click. </em>The guyraises an eyebrow and amends, “Guess <em>you</em> got it.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Thanks,” the no-longer-caged guy says gratefully. “You sure you’re okay?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fine,” Spencer insists, already starting up the stairs. “Just need some air.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Stop staring at the pretty Fed, Sammy, we gotta haul ass,” the new guy mutters. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer’s so startled that he misses a step and almost falls backward. By the time he’s recovered his balance, the storm door is slamming shut behind them. </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 2007</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alternate beginning to Criminal Minds, S2E14, "The Big Game."</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
<p></p><div class=""><p>“I will not peddle flesh, I’m a physician!” Spencer says in a rush, and they drink. He flings his arms out triumphantly, ready to take a bow. </p></div><div class=""><p>His right fist connects with someone’s stomach as they walk by. </p></div><div class=""><p>“Oof,” Spencer hears. </p></div><div class=""><p>“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he babbles, turning around. </p></div><div class=""><p>Spencer realizes too late that his seated position puts him about level with the stranger’s crotch. He blinks stupidly and looks up (and up, and up…) until he meets the pretty green-gold eyes of the man he just punched. Which — wow. </p></div><div class=""><p>“Didn’t mean to get in the way of your victory lap,” the guy says, laughing. He has dimples. Spencer chokes on his tongue a little bit. </p></div></div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sorry,” Spencer repeats. His cheeks feel flushed, but he’s going to blame that on the alcohol. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do I really have to do the dad joke right now?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What do you — oh. I’m — wait, do I know you?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Don’t think so.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s something about the guy that’s oddly familiar, but Spencer can’t place it. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer realizes he’s still craning his neck to look up and meet those ridiculously pretty eyes. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, I would remember… uh.” Spencer cuts himself off before he says “a face like that,” because <em>really</em>? Could he <em>be</em> any more cheesy? </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Can I buy you a drink, Sorry?” the guy asks, and his smile is still wide and sweet but he’s shifting his weight like he’s shy. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I already have a drink,” Spencer says blankly, looking down at his very full glass. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Never mind.” The smile dims a bit. “Have a good night.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Then he’s gone, and Spencer’s left blinking after him, wondering what just happened. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Please tell me you did not just turn that down,” Penelope says, flopping down on the couch next to Spencer. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He — I wasn’t — I’m not —” Spencer stutters. His cheeks are burning now in a way that he can’t pretend is just from alcohol, but the rest of him feels cold. He takes a deep breath, heart thudding. “How long have you known?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“‘Bout what? That you, like, swing that way?” she says brightly. “I didn’t. But you’d have to be blind or dead not to swing <em>that</em> way.” She gestures emphatically over to where the guy is picking a pool cue, muscles cording in his forearms. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Oh.” Spencer blinks and swallows, mouth dry. “And that’s — not an issue? Do you think the rest of the team…” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Even if they have guessed, sweet cheeks, it’s not gonna matter one little bit. Now, are you gonna do a shot with me, or are you gonna march over there and let <em>him</em> buy you a drink?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer feels about fifty pounds lighter, suddenly. He wants to thank Penelope, tell her what it means to him, but he doesn’t have words for the warmth in his chest. He brushes it off and tries to remember what they were talking about. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sure he doesn’t… um. He didn’t mean it that way.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He most <em>definitely</em> meant it that way,” Penelope says, rolling her eyes. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I mean, look at him. Look at me.” Spencer gestures down at himself. “Guys like that… no way. Besides, I — I’d just make it awkward. Even more awkward.” He grimaces as he runs through the conversation again in his head.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Ohhh, my poor sweet genius baby,” Penelope sighs. “One of these days you need to look in a mirror, because it seems to have escaped your attention that you are not only <em>brilliant</em> but also <em>infuriatingly</em> gorgeous, and—”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You don’t have to say this stuff to make me feel better,” Spencer interrupts. Penelope opens her mouth to argue. </p>
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  <p>JJ appears and puts a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. Because it’s JJ, he doesn’t mind too much. </p>
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  <p>One look at her face tells him exactly what she’s about to say: “We gotta go.” </p>
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  <p>Spencer grabs his bag and glances over in the direction of the pool table, surprised to find the guy already looking in his direction; he shoots Spencer a quick smile that looks almost disappointed. </p>
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  <p>Yeah, right. </p>
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  <p>Spencer shakes himself out of it. They’ve got work to do. </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 2007 (two days later)</h2></a>
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    <p>Everything hurts. Spencer’s head is throbbing, and his wrists are chafed raw, and there’s a stabbing pain radiating up his leg… and he <em>still</em> doesn’t want whatever Tobias has in that syringe, no matter how much he claims it’ll help. </p>
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    <p>“Please,” Spencer protests, and he tries to wriggle away. The needle glints in the low light; he tries not to think about the multitude of pathogens that could be clinging to that tiny spike of metal.</p>
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    <p>The door slams open. </p>
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    <p>Tobias’s hand jerks violently as he flinches. For one horrifying moment Spencer’s convinced it must’ve pierced the skin, and he’s waiting for his nerves to register the pain, but the syringe skitters harmlessly across the floor. </p>
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  <p>Two shots ring out, and Hankel stumbles backward. </p>
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  <p>Spencer shouts, trying to figure out where he was hit, but… Spencer must be seeing things, his brain pushed to the limit by dehydration or shock, because instead of  falling down, Hankel is <em>smoking</em>. He’s shouting and hissing and smoking like he’s been burned, cringing away, cowering.</p>
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  <p>There are two men advancing, shotguns cocked, and they’re shouting words that don’t make any sense. For a moment Spencer thinks it’s auditory hallucinations, part of his delirium, but then he realizes it’s <em>Latin</em>. </p>
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  <p>“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—”</p>
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  <p>“You think you can stop the Lord’s will?” Hankel roars, and it’s the father talking now, drawing his gun, surging to his feet and storming forward. </p>
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  <p>Everything is moving jerky and slow, one frame at a time, like Spencer’s seeing it through an old slide projector.</p>
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  <p>Hankel pulls the trigger. The empty chamber clicks uselessly. </p>
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  <p>“—omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio—”</p>
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  <p>One of the men is grabbing Hankel, sending the gun to the floor with a clatter and wrapping him with a length of chain that pins his arms to his sides. Hankel howls as he wrestles against the man’s hold, clawing at the chain, and Spencer would swear it’s <em>burning</em> him somehow. </p>
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  <p>“—omnis congregatio et secta diabolica—” </p>
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  <p>The other man is at Spencer’s side, sawing at the bonds on his wrists, but Spencer can’t stop staring at Hankel. </p>
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  <p>There’s <em>smoke</em> pouring from his mouth: a long coal-black column of it that twists away and streams into the floor, leaving nothing but a charred patch on the wood to mark where it disappeared. </p>
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  <p>Hankel drops like a rag doll. </p>
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  <p>The man drops the chain and lets out a relieved sigh before kneeling down, checking for a pulse. </p>
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  <p>“This one’s fine,” he announces, getting to his feet. “Maybe it was just the stink that knocked him out, this place smells like a mermaid’s asshole.” </p>
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  <p>“I know you,” comes a deep voice from Spencer’s side. The last of the bonds fall away and Spencer turns, blinking dazedly for a second before he recognizes the guy from the bar. It was less than two days ago, but it feels like another lifetime. </p>
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  <p>“Am I hallucinating you?” Spencer croaks, stretching his hands, trying to get some feeling back in his fingers. His tongue feels like sandpaper.</p>
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  <p>The guy laughs. “No. I’m Sam. This is Dean.” </p>
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  <p>Tobias sits bolt upright suddenly, pale and wide-eyed. </p>
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  <p>“What did you do?” he wheezes. “Where did Raphael go?” </p>
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  <p>“Raphael?” </p>
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  <p>“He was an angel. My father said he was an angel.”  </p>
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  <p>Dean snorts. “Yeah, and I’m the fuckin’ Pope.” </p>
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  <p>“You were possessed by a demon,” Sam explains, a little more gently. </p>
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  <p>“No,” Tobias insists. “Not me, my father. He — he said they were punishing the sinners. Doing the Lord’s work.” </p>
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  <p>“Hate to break it to you, kid, but the Lord’s got fuck-all to do with this,” Dean says gruffly. He turns and looks around for his shotgun. </p>
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  <p>“Rock salt,” Sam explains, at Spencer’s bewildered look. </p>
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  <p>Which… doesn’t actually clarify anything? Spencer has <em>questions</em>. </p>
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  <p>“You’re gonna regret that, boy.” </p>
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  <p>It’s Charles Hankel’s booming voice. Before any of them can react, he’s tackling Dean, knocking him off his feet and pinning him down. He strikes Dean across the jaw with skull-rattling force. </p>
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  <p>Dean just gapes at him for a split-second, flabbergasted. Spencer realizes that they didn’t know about the father or the psychotic break. Then Dean’s fighting back, cursing and struggling as Hankel snarls. Sam dives for the shotgun, but this time the scattered hail of rock salt doesn’t seem to have any effect. </p>
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  <p>Sam and Dean are both shouting over the sound of the scuffle: </p>
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  <p>“Are you sure—”</p>
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  <p>“The exorcism didn’t—”</p>
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  <p>“—holy water!” </p>
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  <p>“—silver?” </p>
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  <p>“He’s—” Spencer starts, but his voice comes out shredded and cracked, and he can’t make himself heard. </p>
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  <p>Sam pulls out a flask with a cross on it and splashes water on Hankel, which (<em>obviously</em>, Spencer thinks) only makes him angrier. </p>
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  <p>“What the hell <em>is</em> this guy?” Sam hisses. </p>
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  <p>“You think holy water has any effect on a servant of God?” Hankel roars. He backhands Dean across the jaw with a brutal crack, and the impact leaves him stunned and motionless. Hankel pulls a knife from his belt before standing to turn on Sam. </p>
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  <p>Spencer can barely gather the energy to drag himself out of the chair. He stumbles on uncooperative legs, staggering a couple steps before collapsing to the floor and grabbing Hankel’s gun. </p>
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  <p>Sam and Hankel are across the room, now, wrestling for control of the knife, and they’re too close together. Spencer wouldn’t be able to make that shot even under ideal circumstances, and right now his hands are trembling alarmingly. </p>
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  <p>One bullet. </p>
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  <p>“Sam,” Spencer says hoarsely, as loud as he can manage, and somehow Sam hears. He glances over and reacts instantaneously, twisting out of Hankel’s grip, dropping to the floor and rolling away. </p>
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  <p>Spencer squeezes the trigger. Hankel falls. </p>
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  <p>For a moment there’s a stunned pause in the little shack. Nothing but Sam and Spencer’s labored breathing breaks the silence. </p>
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  <p>Sam kicks the knife out of Hankel’s reach before rushing to check on Dean, but Hankel’s not struggling; he’s just lying there, clutching the bloodstain that’s spreading slowly across his chest. Spencer limps over and looks down at him. </p>
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  <p>“You killed him,” Tobias says, his voice thin and tremulous.</p>
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  <p>He almost looks relieved. Something in Spencer’s ribcage twists sharply. </p>
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  <p>“I’m sorry,” he whispers. </p>
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  <p>Tobias’s eyes are already glassy and unseeing. He’s gone, and so is his father. </p>
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  <p>Spencer, somehow, is still here. He’s shivering and lightheaded and weak with hunger, but he’s <em>alive</em>. He crouches and gently closes Tobias’s eyes, and then he stands up and turns his back on the body. </p>
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  <p>“Can someone please tell me what the <em>fuck</em> just happened?” Dean groans, as Sam helps him to his feet. </p>
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  <p>“You might be concussed,” Spencer points out, but Dean scoffs and waves a dismissive hand. </p>
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  <p>“Minor head trauma, cool, must be a day that ends in Y,” he grumbles, heading for the door. “Not what I meant.” </p>
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  <p>“Split personality — wait. What did— how did you— why—” Spencer stutters. “My team, I need—”</p>
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  <p>“First things first,” Sam says firmly. “Water, food, fresh air… c’mon, you can call your team and then I’ll explain everything.” </p>
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  <p>Spencer limps after him, blinking as he emerges into the slanting late afternoon sunlight. It’s a bright, clear day, and the air smells like dirt and grass and green growing things. He stops for a second and sags against the rough wood door frame, hauling in a lungful of air. He feels so light he might float away. </p>
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  <p>Everything still hurts, and once the shock wears off Spencer’s going to have some nasty memories to process, but… he’s <em>lucky</em>. God, he’s lucky. It could’ve been so much worse. Right now, all Spencer can feel is a fierce, dizzying joy at the knowledge that he’s <em>alive</em>. </p>
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  <p>“Hey, wait,” Dean says, wheeling around and pointing an accusing finger at Spencer. “You showed up at that — the fuckin’ redneck torture house. Last year. Remember, Sammy?” Sam looks skeptical for a moment before his eyes go wide, and Dean continues with a smirk: “You wouldn’t shut up about his lock picking skills. Or his face.” </p>
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  <p>Sam scowls. Dean gives him a shit-eating grin and lopes off toward a shiny black muscle car. They must be brothers, Spencer realizes. </p>
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  <p>“You look different,” Sam mumbles, pink-cheeked. </p>
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  <p>“I think I was too busy freaking out about spiderwebs to get a good look at you guys,” Spencer replies, wrinkling his nose at the memory. “Huh.” </p>
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  <p>“Um… here, you can call whoever you need to call. Sorry about him. I didn’t — sorry if I made you uncomfortable, the other night, I thought—” He breaks off, shaking his head, and hands Spencer his phone. </p>
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  <p>There’s a reckless feeling bubbling up in Spencer’s chest, obliterating his usual lack of confidence, in spite of the fact that he’s covered in blood and smells like burned fish guts. Maybe he’s delirious after all. </p>
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  <p>“After I call my team, I’m going to put my number in here,” Spencer says, and a grin spreads slowly over Sam’s face. </p>
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  <p>“Yeah?” </p>
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  <p>“Yeah. I think I owe you a drink.” </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you enjoyed this, please leave a comment! Feel free to find me on tumblr (@there-must-be-a-lock) where I frequently screech about Sam, Spencer, and the rest of the crew.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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